


tomorrow will be kinder

by cresswell



Series: soulmates [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresswell/pseuds/cresswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He keeps an eye on her while they're in the training room: she's always present in his line of vision, a shock of blonde hair and an always-there frown. She stays close to the paint and the plants, keeping her head down. Her fingers weave baskets effortlessly, and Bellamy watches not-so-subtly as she paints herself into green foliage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tomorrow will be kinder

**Author's Note:**

> hi! okay, so i wanted to do a series basically of bellarke AUs, because in any universe they would still find each other. warning: i haven't read the hunger games in a few years, so there are probably some incorrect details lol. and i haven't spellchecked this, but i wanted to get it up! enjoy :)

He's watching when she gets reaped. 

District 6 is full of poor people in lab coats and rubber gloves: they produce medicine. The boy who gets reaped is dark-skinned, holding his head high, but Bellamy can see the tear tracks glistening when he stands on the stage. The mayor, on the side of the same stage, is covering is mouth with his hand, and Bellamy gets a twisted hope that that is the boy's father, that he suffers for allowing the reaping to go on.

Bellamy goes back to buttoning his shirt, the tiny monitor playing a tinny drumroll as they draw for the girl.

"Clarke Griffin."

Bellamy's eyebrows arch. He's heard of her family; her mother is the head of medicine production. Her father was executed for smuggling antibiotics to poor districts who couldn't afford it. He bows his head, thinking that the Griffin family doesn't deserve any more loss.

\---

When his name is called, he doesn't process it for a few seconds. Truth be told, he's distracted, and he doesn't realize what's happening until Octavia is screaming and clinging to him.

Peacekeepers slowly make their way towards him, and his heart is in his throat when he turns to his sister. "O. It's okay. It's okay! I'll see you soon."

He won't, though, and Octavia knows it. He can feel his whole body shaking as he picks his way through the crowd. Hands grasp at him, trying to offer him comfort, but all he can do is shy away, like he doesn't know these people. He watches himself walk onstage from the distance, out of his body, and he keeps his face blank.

The girl called to die is named Roma. She cries all the way to the stage and all the way to the train.

\---

He keeps an eye on her while they're in the training room: she's always present in his line of vision, a shock of blonde hair and an always-there frown. She stays close to the paint and the plants, keeping her head down. Her fingers weave baskets effortlessly, and Bellamy watches not-so-subtly as she paints herself into green foliage.

Bellamy chooses to just kind of screw around with some of the weaponry, because he already knows how to use it. He can throw knives and hatchets and he can knock someone's teeth out with his fist, if he has to. He's twirling a knife between his fingers, watching the Griffin girl, when she speaks to him.

"You can come help me, you know."

He promptly drops the knife like an idiot, making him scowl, and stomps over her. "Just so you know," he says, trying to make his voice threatening, "I wasn't watching you-"

"I never said you were," she says, voice light and calm, and Bellamy's scowl deepens. He sits down in the chair next to her, watching as she swirls her fingers in paint. She works slowly and carefully, making sure to wipe her hands completely clean of her previous color before adding a new one. She pushes a stand of hair off her face and gets a streak of green on her cheek.

"What's the point of all this?" Bellamy finally asks, tired of watching her do nothing, gesturing at her mess on the table.

She rolls her eyes a little, but there's a hint of a smile on her face, too. "So that I can see, but not be seen."

"That seems like a lot of work, especially when you could just find a good hiding spot."

She turns to him with a look that tells him he's an idiot, one eyebrow curved up. "All the good hiding spots will be taken. So I'll have to make my own."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, almost sneering at her but not quite. "So that's your whole strategy, then? Finger-painting yourself into oblivion?"

The quirks her mouth, focusing on her painting. "That's a part of my strategy, yes." She pulls her hands back, examining her work, and nods in satisfaction. "What about you? Going to juggle knives all day?"

Bellamy feels himself blush, frowning down at his feet. "I didn't know you were watching me."

She turns to him with that _look_ again, but it's kinder now, softer. "Of course I was."

She excuses herself to go to the plant and herbs table, and Bellamy takes the opportunity to see what she was painting. But all he sees is streaks of color.

\---

Bellamy is the second to last for his interview, seeing as he's from District 12, and so he has to watch all the other tributes on a small screen backstage. Of course, he's only _actually_ watching for one.

Clarke's been done up to look like a Greek goddess, beautiful sea-foam fabric draped across her and cinched at her waist. Her shoulders have small gold spikes on them, like armor, and her face is streaked with gold, making her sharp and dangerous. She even has a small crown twisted onto her head, bronze flowers knotting in her hair, which is wild and untamed.

The audience gasps audibly when she steps onstage, face hard and unforgiving, and Bellamy thinks that for once it's not dramatics. She really does look like she descended from the heavens on stairs made of clouds, and when she sits in the chair opposite Kane, the interviewer, she makes it look like a throne.

Bellamy's heart is going haywire.

"Clarke Griffin," Kane starts, a cruel grin forming on his lips. He's known for being brutal in interviews. "I know your mother quite well."

She appraises him, flicking her eyes across him before making them meet his. "How lucky for you."

The audience titters at her tone, at the way she sounds like she's bored out of her mind. Kane's face hardens as Clarke gazes out into the crowd, like she's daring them to challenge her. Kane straightens his jacket, leaning forward. "Tell us about yourself."

Clarke simply raises her eyebrow at him, like she's surprised he'd make such a stupid request, and turns back to face the crowd. She doesn't falter. "I refuse."

Kane blinks, obviously ruffled, and the audience murmurs. "Pardon?"

Bellamy shakes his head backstage, his heart pounding a mile a minute. _What is she_ doing?

"I said I refuse," she reiterates, and her tone is light and polite, but she's still sitting like a queen and it makes it hard to question her. "If you don't like it, what are you going to do about it? Kill me?" She laughs harshly, eye makeup glittering madly in the stage lighting. "You've already killed me. You wouldn't want to spoil all the fun."

"Miss Griffin, listen-"

"No, _you_ listen," Clarke says, voice cold and demanding, pointing a finger at him. "I am a doctor. I don't kill people who aren't already on the brink of death. And I won't change my ways just because you cowards decide to lock me in an arena with twenty-three other children." She narrows her eyes, dropping her voice in a way that makes everyone hang onto the edge of their seats. "You don't get to play God. You don't get to decide who lives or dies. Not here."

The timer goes off then and Clarke stands, leaving the stage with her head held high. She leaves Kane gaping after her, and as soon as she's out of the spotlight, the audience bursts into wild applause.

Bellamy's shocked, his pulse pounding in his head, and Roma's got a hand clapped to her forehead. "She's fucking _crazy_ -"

"No," Bellamy says, more to himself than to her. "She's _amazing_."

\---

Bellamy's looking at Clarke when the cannon sounds.

He sprints forward, jamming his elbow into the face of a boy who lunges at him. This is the bloodbath, he knows, but he doesn't want to kill any of them. Not unless he has to. So he punches and shoves instead, knocking at least three other tributes unconscious.

When he has a brief moment to pause, he cranes his head around for Clarke and has just enough time to see her hair disappearing in the trees. _What_? He growls to himself, purely put of frustration, and kicks the feet out from under a tribute girl sneaking up on him.

When he gets to the pile of supples, he grabs a knife, a bag, and a hatchet. After a moment, he also grabs paint and a small dagger. He sprints away, towards the trees Clarke had disappeared into, shoving his knife into the arm of a boy grabbing at him. The boy cries out, but Bellamy doesn't stop.

Most of the other tributes are either unconscious or still at the cornucopia, but Bellamy keeps his knife out anyway. He looks blindly for Clarke, searching for the glint of her hair, but all he sees is foliage. He tries not to think about what the commentators will say: that he's weirdly fixated on her, obsessed with being the one to kill her. He tries not to imagine Octavia's disappointment when she hears that. But he doesn't want to kill Clarke. He doesn't want to kill any of the tributes, not unless he has to. He wants to help Clarke, hide them away until the other tributes die off on their own.

There's the snap of a twig behind him and he whirls, hatchet at the ready. It's the boy from District 7, he thinks, chin-length dark hair. He raises his hands in surrender when Bellamy lifts his weapon. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here. Please don't; I'm unarmed."

"Like hell," Bellamy spits out, but a quick scan with his eyes tells him that the boy is telling the truth. Bellamy holds the hatchet in front of him threateningly, slowly backing into the woods. "If I see you again, I won't be so kind."

The boy nods vigorously and Bellamy runs, sprinting away. The viewers might think he's weak now because he couldn't kill that boy, but he doesn't care. He puts up a tough front but he's never killed anybody. 

Clarke is still nowhere, somehow, and Bellamy knows she can't possibly run that fast. If she was dead already, her body would be on the ground, already picked over. But there are no corpses.

He starts scanning the trees, desperate, for some reason, to find her. He can't picture her being a climber- there weren't many accessible trees in 6, at least what he could tell from pictures- but there's no way she got so far on foot. The dirt is slippery, almost like mud, and it makes keeping his footing difficult. 

"Hey."

He actually skids on the wet ground, arms flailing, and there's soft laughter from above him. He cranes his neck, squinting upwards until he finds a shock of blonde against the deep green. "Hey yourself."

She gives him a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Looking for me?"

He considers lying, but decides against it. "Yeah, actually. How'd you get up there?"

"Are you here to kill me?" is what she says instead, peering down at him. She's lying flush against a thick branch, arms around it like she's giving it a hug. Her legs dangle down. One of her pant legs is bloody.

"What?" Bellamy replies, eyebrows furrowing. "No. Of course not."

She shrugs, expression guarded. "You can if you want."

"Clarke," he replies, already exasperated with this frustrating, clever girl. "I'm not going to kill you, okay? I brought you some paint." He digs around in his pockets until his fingers close around the small vials. He holds them up as if she can see them from how high up she is. "See?"

"I see," she says. She snuggles down closer to her branch. "You can come up here if you want."

Bellamy glares at her but her eyes are already shut. He groans to himself, marveling at how often she's made him put effort into things, and grips the trunk of the tree. "If I fall and break my neck, Princess, it's on you."

"I'll fix you," she calls back down, voice bright, and Bellamy can't see her but he figures she's smiling. He heaves himself upwards until he can reach the lowest branch and then swings himself onto it, pausing to get his balance. The bark is damp, making it almost soft under his hands, and he wonders if it rained in the arena before they were let into it. Slowly, he heaves himself from branch to branch, getting a few nasty scrapes on his hands as he does so.

She gazes at him when he finally settles himself on a branch at equal height with hers, her cheek smushed against the bark. "You have hardly a scratch on you."

" _I_ have a hatchet," he says matter-of-factly. He points to her bloodied pant leg. "What happened there?"

Her hand flutters down to it, almost self-consciously, and she frowns. "Took an arrow to the leg."

" _What_?"

"It's alright," she continues, smiling at him reassuringly. "I already cleaned and mended it as best I could. I got a first-aid kit from a sponsor." She digs around in the small bag on her pack, searching until she pulls out a little white box. "See? I can clean your hands, too, if you want."

She's referring to the scrapes he has on his palms. He shakes his head quickly. "No, no. Save it for injuries that really need it."

She nods once in agreement and they lapse into tense silence. Bellamy watches her scan the ground with her eyes, clinging tight to her branch. She has no weapon in her hands, and with the amount of blood on her pants, he suddenly realizes that she expects to die. It's a horrible thought, one that makes him dig around in his pockets until he locates the knife he had taken from the Cornucopia. He holds it out to her.

She looks at him, surprised, and makes no move to take it. "For me?"

Bellamy nods. "Can't let you die, Princess."

She scowls at him, arms staying firmly wrapped around the branch. "Are you crazy? Everyone will think you're weak for saying that."

"I don't care," he responds, surprised to find that he means it. When she still makes no move to take the knife, he rolls his eyes impatiently. "Come on, Clarke. Just take it."

She huffs out a sigh but does as he asks, a small, pleased smile on her face. Bellamy leans back against the trunk of the tree, his hands still gripping the branch he's on. "So. Why're you hiding up here?"

"I'm not a killer."

"I know," he says before he can stop himself. "I watched your interview."

She nods once, wincing when the bark scratches her cheek. "Bellamy," she says suddenly, voice quiet. She sits up slowly, struggling, a wince on her face. Carefully, she leans sideways towards him, her hands reaching out to grip his knees. "I need to tell you something."

Heart pounding, Bellamy leans in until her lips are against his ear. She takes a shuddering breath in. "My father worked as a Gamemaker before we went to 6," she says, her voice nothing but a breath. "He found a flaw in the system. The walls... they're invisible, but they're there. I know how to break them." She breathes out hot against his ear, and his whole body shudders. "We can escape."

He keeps his expression neutral, knowing that there could be cameras or microphones anywhere, and nods once, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, let's do that," he says, clearing his throat. "Find water, I mean."

She nods back, eyes searching his to make sure he understands, and he does. She hunkers down closer to her branch. "It's too risky to go now. It's still early. People aren't exhausted yet. We need to go at the crack of dawn, when everyone's asleep or dead."

She stretches out her hand and he takes it, watching her eyes close as she relaxes against her branch. He stays quiet while she sleeps, his hatchet clenched in his fist, his heart pounding for the anticipation of morning. They're not killers, and now they don't have to be. He thinks of Octavia and his mother, crowded on their small couch, and he even thinks of Clarke's father, who would be so grateful to see his daughter like this: strong and unrelenting.

He leans over and tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear, watching in horror as her mouth stretches into a grin. "Still awake, Bellamy."

He scowls, even though her eyes are closed and she can't see it, and her quiet laughter fills the silence of their solitude.


End file.
